


C'est L'amour

by flashofthefuse



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Fluff, No Plot/Plotless, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 17:48:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18320219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashofthefuse/pseuds/flashofthefuse
Summary: During her time away from Melbourne Phryne has a chance encounter at a cafe in Paris. Or is it?





	C'est L'amour

**Author's Note:**

> This little piece of fluff has been banging around in my head for awhile now so I took a break from my WIP to get it out. It was prompted by the song _C'est L'amour_ by Rosi Golan.

It is almost a cliche.

It starts when I spy a devastatingly handsome stranger sitting at a cafe. Our eyes meet and that’s all I need to be drawn to his side where I am welcomed as though he’s been waiting just for me. The world around us divides into pieces with all but the one we two occupy falling away.

A chance encounter. A starry night. It starts in a cafe but where it ends is yet to be discovered. It is something I have experienced before and yet like nothing I have ever known.

Like I said. A cliche.

Almost.

Almost—because it didn’t start in this cafe, and while he is devastatingly handsome, he is not a stranger.

This isn’t a chance meeting. I _am_ expected and will be very welcome. When he sees me I know that his eyes will flash in that way they do for me alone and it will ignite a place inside me that only he can reach.

He is not a stranger. Far from it, but he may as well be at the moment. He is so completely relaxed and at home as to be almost unrecognizable to me. He looks like a native, leaned back in the cafe chair, a cigarette between his long, graceful fingers, contentedly watching the crowds move past.

The cup he sips from is so small it should look ridiculous in his large hand but he holds it elegantly with a complete lack of self-consciousness.

I know he is expecting me but am oddly nervous to approach him.

It's been ten days since we were last together. I had loose ends to tie so he went ahead, taking the opportunity to visit a friend that settled here after the war. He left his friend two days ago and has since been here, anticipating our reunion. The second in as many months.

Perhaps I had expected him to appear less settled, anxiously awaiting my arrival, or haunted by the ghosts that linger here, but he is none of these things. Clearly, this holiday, and this city, suit.

I’m tempted to stay out of view and watch him awhile longer but it’s clear I’m not the only one to find him fascinating. Perhaps the time has come to make myself known and stake my claim.

I make sure to draw his attention as I approach. I want the other women—particularly the one to his right, in the blue hat—to witness the moment he lays eyes on me and know their hopes are dashed.

Call me petty. What do I care? That small smile and that smolder in his eyes are for me and I want everyone to know it.

I stop at his side and his head lifts to meet my eye.

“All you need is a mustache to be mistaken for a local, Inspector. Since when do you smoke?”

“When in Rome, Miss Fisher.”

He stands to pull out my chair and lets me take the cigarette from his fingers. I put it to my mouth, pulling the smoke deep into my lungs and pursing my lips just so as I exhale.

His head tilts slightly, his lips curling into that smirk that he now knows drives me to distraction.

“Ah, but this is not Rome, Jack. We are in Paris,” I remind him, stubbing out what remains of the fag.

“Of course,” he nods solemnly, “The city of lights.”

“The city of love.”

And because he needed reminding of where we are, I take his face into my hands and draw him near to remind him of what we are as well.

The world around us divides into pieces.


End file.
